


but thinking makes it so

by goosewriting



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Drunk Sex, First Time, Frottage, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Smut, They're Switches Bitches!, Top Aziraphale, and then!, aziraphale is a man shaped being who is here to mix it UP, bottom Crowley, but if i had to, drunk ISH, id say, lots of uhhhh reflection and imagery at first, post-1601-globe-threatre, references to Hamlet Miracles(tm), seriously im not really sure that id categorize either of them as the top or the bottom here, smut and fluff with a LITTLE angst, then we get to the good stuff, well.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:54:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25031254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goosewriting/pseuds/goosewriting
Summary: He feels Crowley—(now isn’t that a thought? Feeling Crowley?)—he feels him. Feels as his emotions change, as they stay the same— the latter is somehow more frightening. Since day one, he knows he’s felt something rolling off of him in thick, overpowering waves. Something that feels so too-warm for a demon, so too-close, so very much like a welcome embrace and so very much like coming home.It feels something like love.It’s so much. It’s so much. (It’s what he wants, but it’s too much.)———-In 1602, Aziraphale invites Crowley over to thank him for the success of Hamlet. They drink, and one thing leads to another.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 210
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	but thinking makes it so

**Author's Note:**

> hi! i'm back with another mistake.
> 
> if you're familiar with my reverse au, fine forecasts, you'll know that this was a fic for them first. then i realized it'd REALLY kick ass if it was a canon husbands fic, so here we are. i've changed a few things throughout, so if you read the original, i hope this one is still worth it! 
> 
> enjoy!

London, 1602  
  


The year, so far, has been incredibly busy for Aziraphale. 

As he rounds the corner on the high streets of London, looking for the quarters Gabriel had managed for him, he thinks of the last time he’d stayed here for any period of time. It was only a year ago, but it feels like _ages_ — though he remembers it well. Shakespeare, the Globe Theatre, fresh-from-the-vine grapes in his hand, his favorite pair of linen breeches. He’d lost those breeches while traveling and mourns their loss every time the rough-hewn hem of his new pair scratches his leg. He’ll have to visit his tailor while in London, he decides. 

His recollection misses something, though, and it snaps back to him as he turns a corner. There’s the Globe, as magnificent as the last time he saw it, but significantly more crowded this time. Oh— _Crowley._ Last time he was here, they’d flipped the coin that had sent Aziraphale off on a horse to Edinburgh. Looking over the crowd, though, Aziraphale’s heart skips a beat. 

He kept his promise. As Aziraphale had watched a performance of _Hamlet,_ as the coin flipped and decided his fate, Crowley promised he would make Hamlet a success. _It would take a real miracle,_ William had said. 

A miracle, it had. Aziraphale looks upon the spoils of it now. 

Breathlessly, he retreats. He walks up the road faster, only serving to chafe his leg more, until he reaches the room he’s been lent— through money or miracle, he isn’t sure. He enters, shaking, shutting and locking the door. 

Crowley had done that for him. He’d pace circles around Aziraphale, demanding that _it wasn’t for you, it was for Will,_ and _I still only like the funny ones._

Aziraphale knows, though. It’s for him. 

That’s what scares him. Fifty-six hundred and six years, he’s known Crowley _._ Every single time they run into each other, Aziraphale watches the line between their sides blur. He watches Crowley go out of his way to do things for him, and watches himself do the same. 

He _feels_ Crowley—

(now isn’t that a thought? _Feeling_ Crowley?)

—he feels him. Feels as his emotions change, as they stay the same— the latter is somehow more frightening. Since day one, he _knows_ he’s felt something rolling off of him in thick, overpowering waves. Something that feels so too-warm for a demon, so too-close, so very much like a welcome embrace and so very much like coming home. 

It feels something like _love._

It’s so much. It’s so much. (It’s what he wants, but it’s too much.)

Aziraphale has had his forehead pressed to the door and his hand clenching the doorknob for what feels like eons. Slowly, he removes it, he turns, and he stalks to the small writer’s desk set up by the window. He sits in the chair, places his elbows on the surface of the desk, and presses his face into his hands. 

Demons— don’t love. ( _Can’t_ love.) (Shouldn’t love?) 

Then again, who told him so? Heaven? They’ve been less than trustworthy in Aziraphale’s five-thousand years, he reflects. Aziraphale, when he finds himself too cozy beneath the arm of Heaven, remembers the plagues, the Ark. He remembers the atrocities committed in Heaven’s name. He remembers the blind eyes turned to the humans’ suffering and the miracles he performed in secret to help the petty few he could reach with his two corporeal arms. 

He wonders how many more lives could have been saved if Heaven had stretched out its wings in an effort to heal, rather than watched pitilessly as its own creation drowned. (Festered, burned, starved, wilted.) 

Demons… _can’t_ love. (Shouldn’t?)

But they can. He’s seen it on Crowley’s face during every one of their meetings in one form or another. He loves the Earth, he loves his little, petty wiles. He loves humans and all their discoveries, nuances, oddities, and quirks— and he’d never admit any of it. He loves. Sometimes, Aziraphale thinks that Crowley loves harder and larger than he ever could. 

Demons _shouldn’t_ love(?). 

And why not? Are they not beings? Damned beings, sure, but beings the same. Do they not feel the same push and pull as any other beings? The push to love, the pull to hate? If an angel can hate— and Aziraphale does hate, he hates plenty of things— then can not a demon love? 

(And regardless of if a demon _does,_ or _can,_ or _should_ love, Aziraphale would still want Crowley to love him, he reckons.)

Oh, what’s that line from Hamlet? Aziraphale sifts through his mind to remember it. Ah— _there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._ There’s something so funny to him about the fact that he first heard that line with Crowley standing at his left. 

They’ve proven it, haven’t they? Some days Aziraphale thinks Crowley to be more good than he is, even. He isn’t sure if he’s right, but some days it feels like it. And yet, who of them is the angel? 

Some days he feels it shouldn’t be him. 

For him, this pessimism is uncharacteristic, but at times like these, he can’t help it. He looks at himself, a being supposed to be of pure love, and can see so much _lust._ He manages to duck into the deepest corners of his psyche, where he’s brushed away countless thoughts of Crowley’s legs, or his hair, or his eyes, or his arse. There’s evidence there of Aziraphale’s wonderings— his conjectures about how it would feel to hold him, how it would feel to _touch_ him. On lonely days, he catches himself thinking of the way Crowley licks his lip, wondering if his tongue is soft. Wondering if it would feel soft on him. Wondering how he prefers to use it.

As a being of love, he does his absolute best to keep those thoughts swept under the proverbial rug. 

The other side of the coin provides more evidence. Crowley is supposed to be a creature of lust and lust alone. Yet the plumes of love that roll from him like great gales of wind are strong enough to bowl Aziraphale over.

So they’re the same, somehow. They feel the same things, the right things, the _wrong_ things. Did they not come from the same stock, the same wave of a hand? _There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._

Thinking has made it so. It’s made it so that they stand on opposite sides of a line drawn in the sand by beings greater than both of them. As much as he wants to scratch it out with his foot, erase the line so that he can cross it and gather Crowley into his arms, he _can’t_. It doesn’t bear thinking about. 

So why’s he thinking about it? Why has he always returned to this line of thought, over and over again? Why does he constantly imagine himself, but with his arms wrapped tightly around his beloved, tight enough that maybe one day they’ll find they never again must part? 

This is all so _much_. Too much for him. 

Aziraphale releases his head from his hands and it hits the desk with a satisfying _thump._ He groans, turning that head so that he can look out the window. 

Thinking of it all, he _misses_ Crowley. They’ve been acquaintances— adversaries— _friends?_ for five thousand years. It’s been a year since they’ve seen each other, and while they used to go thousands upon thousands of days without hide or tail of one another, a year seems so long now. He aches to see him. 

Their Arrangement predates the invention of the clock. A long, long time, they’ve been keeping each other company on Earth. A long time, they’ve shared meals and miracles. Long enough for them both to fall into love, to feel lust. 

Really, what’s one more meeting? He _misses_ him. And, regardless— he really should thank him for the miracle, shouldn’t he? After all, it’s he who made Hamlet a success. 

He lies there in melancholy contemplation for a few more minutes, letting the desk’s wood transfer its cold into his flesh. Eventually, he resolves to stop being so in-his-head and just invite the damn demon over for drinks. 

He miracles up a quill and parchment and proceeds to write a formal letter asking the demon to meet him at his lodgings for wine. He claims a few untrue things about the wine he has, all of which he wills to reality with a miracle in order to make the offer more alluring to the demon. By now, he knows he can’t resist a good, expensive Cabernet Sauvignon. 

Another miracle, and the letter is wherever Crowley is. 

Two days later, Aziraphale gets a response. Lucky for him, the response is delivered by word of mouth. In other words, Crowley shows up firsthand to inquire about the wine and the company. 

Aziraphale opens the door to him, tries to appear businesslike, and fails miserably. “Oh, Crowley! How nice to see you.” 

Crowley, it appears, also fails. A small grin cracks his face, and one of his fangs glints in the candlelight. His hair is like flames where it falls in long waves past his shoulders. He’s gotten rid of that horrid goatee. “Hey, angel,” he greets. “‘S been a while.” 

Aziraphale waves him in with a flourish. “It’s been too long, my dear boy. Hang up your cloak, if you wish. I’ll get the wine.”

The demon enters as instructed, quickly removing the small glasses he wears in order to hide his sun-yellow slitted eyes from the humans. Not every time period has required he wear them, including this one, but Aziraphale thinks that perhaps he’s trying to get ahead of some kind of fashion curve right now and doesn’t comment. Crowley swings his cloak off and drapes it over the back of one of the chairs, proceeding to lean himself against it. 

“So, angel. What’ve you been up to?”

This question has a couple different facets that aren’t visible at first glance. No outsider would be able to guess that Aziraphale had just been subject to a nearly yearlong journey between here and Edinburgh in order to take care of Crowley’s tempting for him, alongside his own blessing. He isn’t asking _what he’s been up to,_ he’s asking _how’d it go?_

“Ah, well, my trip only ended last week. You ought to be sad you didn’t get to go to Edinburgh, Crowley, it was a treat.” It was distinctly _not_ a treat, but Aziraphale would rather be metaphorically damned than admit that. He pours them both a glass of wine and rounds to the chairs, which sit before a small fireplace in Aziraphale’s humble quarters. 

Crowley takes his glass, clinks it lightly against Aziraphale’s, and sits. The chair creaks as he goes. Aziraphale sits also, distinctly more rigid, and lights the fireplace with a snap of his fingers. 

“The rain. Did it happen?” Crowley asks, miracling up a stool for himself to prop his feet on carelessly. "And the, uh, the cattle thief?"

"I tempted him, Crowley, yes. And it rained all summer, though I still don’t know why it was so important that it rain,” Aziraphale replies haughtily, taking an idle sip of his wine. “Usually tempting requires a lot more _tempting_ and a lot less _meddling with the weather.”_

“Yeah, we don’t get to know,” Crowley shrugs, grumbling. “Ineffable.”

Aziraphale looks at him sharply, but there isn’t as much heat there as he wants. “I swear, if you misuse that word one more time—“ 

“You’ll what? Discorporate me? Report me? You’d lose your drinking buddy, angel.” Crowley has a point, and he knows it. You can tell in the way that he tips his glass towards Aziraphale and _winks._ The audacity. 

Aziraphale scoffs. “Just drink your wine, dear boy.” The way he says _dear boy_ sounds similar to how one might say _idiot._

Regardless, Crowley obediently takes a sip, leveling his gaze on Aziraphale again. “And how was _your_ work?” His smooth, burning sincerity would scorch Aziraphale if he’d not already grown accustomed to the heat. “Did you do any, uh. Blessing?”

“You care to know?” Aziraphale queries. 

“Yes, rather. Am I allowed to express interest?” 

Aziraphale huffs rather rudely. “And, what, get to foil my angelic plans with your wiles? Get a step ahead of me?”

Crowley’s brow furrows. “No,” he answers, straightforward. “I just want to know how it went, is all.” 

His tone is so small and sincere that Aziraphale’s walls immediately crumble. “It was, uh, good. The Greyfriars Kirk turned out beautifully. Blessed the royal family while I was at it, the king will be succeeded soon. Took quite a bit of celestial greasing to get there, but I think it’ll work out.”

“Good,” Crowley sips. “A win for your side, then?”

“Yes, I believe so.” 

“Good.” 

The conversation flows easily from this point forth, as the pair of them descend further into drunkenness. They both drink heartily, pretending not to notice as they gravitate toward one another, their chairs scooting closer between every story. 

Aziraphale mentions everything with _Hamlet_ much earlier than either of them expect. After a small lapse during which they both’d been transfixed by the fire, warm with alcohol, the angel hums, “thank you for _Hamlet,_ by the by.” 

Crowley scoffs, nose turning toward the ceiling. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, angel,” he says. “I didn’t do anything, really.”

“I don’t believe it for a second,” Aziraphale grins. “I know it was your miracle that made those lines queue up, don’t try and deny it.”

“I can deny it, and I will. You can’t get me to admit anything,” he banters back, a mischievous glint in his eye. 

“Oh, yeah?” comes Aziraphale’s answering snicker. “You want to bet on that?” 

In his tipsy mirth, he leaned forward conspiratorially to level with Crowley, but became unbalanced and overcorrected. As he finishes his sentence, he claps a hand on Crowley’s knee on accident, and by the time he’s done talking, Crowley has gone fully pink and his warm yellow eyes are locked on that hand. 

Neither of them speak for a second. 

Aziraphale removes his hand and coughs. “You definitely did it.” 

“Yeah, you’re right, but don’t go tellin’ anyone,” Crowley grumbles back, sipping at the last of his (fifth? seventh?) glass of wine. “It was nothin’.”

Aziraphale laughs once with no feeling. They both fall into quiet again, each thinking. Crowley’s flush is receding. 

Aziraphale doesn’t have much time to decide what he’s going to say. His mouth works for him. “I missed you,” he says quietly, his consonants slurring a bit. 

Crowley snorts, eyes averted. “It was only a year.”

Aziraphale’s gaze flashes to him. “But I missed you,” he insists, eyes open and emotional in his inebriation. “I’d be cross with myself later if I didn’t say so.” 

“Why?” Crowley asks. 

“Am I not allowed to miss someone?” Aziraphale croons, hand twitching in his moment of attitude, avoiding a more sincere answer. 

“No, why would you be cross?” Crowley clarifies. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale mumbles. He takes a sip of his drink and averts his eyes, fortifying himself. “I— uh— I think you deserve to know how I feel, is all. I’d be angry if you didn’t know when I could’ve expressed it, I suppose.” 

“Mm. I don’t think that’s all you feel, though, angel,” Crowley says with a surprisingly level gaze, mouth hidden behind his glass. “For me, I mean.”

They must be _much_ drunker than either of them think. Aziraphale would stagger if he weren’t seated. “How— how do you mean?” 

Crowley looks off to the distance, stretching out the silence between them until it’s nearly unbearable. He’s nervous to speak, despite his eagerness to call Aziraphale out a second earlier. Finally, “I can— I can feel your lust for me,” Crowley admits. 

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. How long has he felt that? (Is it as long as he’s been experiencing it?) He scrambles for a response, anything, _anything_ to level the playing field. Anything to put them back on the same footing. His brain is alight with a million different responses, denials, outcries of _it’s true, it’s true, please have me now._ His mind spins a million things to say. A million little ways to pull Crowley in, or to push him away. He isn’t sure how he’ll choose. He freezes for a few seconds, eyes and mouth working, until he can figure out what to do. 

What he ends up saying is, “Yeah— well— I can feel your love.” _For me._ He doesn’t voice that bit because he doesn’t need to.

(This has layers to it— not only is Aziraphale evening them out, keeping them equal in exactly how much they’re laid bare— he’s simultaneously shoving a finger in an open wound on accident. He’s reopened a scar that spells in unhealing pale pink-and-red: _you’re a bloody poor excuse for a demon, aren’t you?_ Crowley has implied nearly as much about Aziraphale in the opposite direction, but neither are truly aware of it in the moment. 

… and the thing is, later, neither of them will mind. In fact, they’d not deny it. They both know that everything these phrases imply is true to some degree, even if they’d pretend otherwise.)

Aziraphale’s rejoinder does as he intended. Crowley’s hand tightens on the armrest of his chair. His eyes search Aziraphale’s face, waiting for him to say it’s a joke. There’s something in his eyes, like he’s begging. _Don’t reveal my love yet. I don't know that I'm ready. Please don’t hurt me._

While Aziraphale’s original intent is to lash out like a wounded animal in order to level them, seeing the panic in the eyes of his desired makes something unpleasant pang in his chest. 

He shifts, in an instant, from retaliative to comforting. He remembers that he loves this man, this demon, even if that love is still too far off to touch. He wants him. He shouldn’t hurt him. 

Aziraphale bridges the space between them with a tentative hand. It comes to rest on Crowley’s thigh again (and _oh,_ was it always quite so firm?), and he meets his eyes. He hopes his intention is clear, he wants Crowley to _see_ it. 

_I don't know that I'm ready, either. I love you too, but I'm not brave enough to say it. I’m so sorry._

Then, questions:

_What do you want?_

_Is it the same as what I want?_

_(What do I want?)_

Crowley’s gaze is heavy and warm, corded heavily to Aziraphale. The warmth of Aziraphale’s hand on his thigh is the same weight, grounding both of them. Aziraphale is suddenly afraid to remove it for fear that they’ll both float away, unable to retether. 

“How long have you wanted me?” Crowley asks almost timidly, like he isn’t sure if asking the question aloud is going to get him forcefully evicted from Aziraphale’s quarters. 

Aziraphale looks down, his pale blue eyes fixed on where his hand rests on Crowley’s thigh. He breathes out, in— unnecessary, but grounding. “I don’t remember not wanting you.”

“So all this time, I’ve— you’ve…”

“Yes.” 

The demon breathes a weighted breath and puts his drink down on the side table. The angel’s hand doesn’t move. Crowley removes Aziraphale’s drink from his other hand, then moves his fingers to rest just above Aziraphale’s wrist— not touching, but close. He inhales steadily. His fingers brush the inside of the angel’s wrist, and it sends a chill up Aziraphale’s spine. 

His other hand, his free palm, hovers close to Aziraphale’s jaw, and he swallows. “Angel,” Crowley says anxiously, his voice little more than a whisper. “Tell me to stop.” 

Aziraphale’s throat works for a moment and he blinks. His hand tightens on Crowley’s thigh, an increase in contact that says _I’m not sure I’d like you to stop._ He thinks, perhaps, that he’d like to give in. “No,” he says, but his voice comes out unsure and quiet. 

Crowley’s hand almost makes contact with his jaw. _Almost._ Aziraphale feels a feather-light brush of fingers. “Please, angel, tell me to stop. Otherwise I won’t be able to resist, I promise you.”

This time, Aziraphale is more sure, but he also seems as though he may cry. His free hand comes up to press Crowley’s hesitant palm against his face. “No,” he breathes, and his even tone betrays his drunkenness. 

“Then—“

“Kiss me, Crowley. Please.”

Crowley blinks once, allowing those words— _commands—_ to sear themselves on his brainstem, before he moves forward from his seat to kneel before Aziraphale, pressing himself up between the angel’s legs and meeting his lips with his own. 

Instantly, Aziraphale melts into him, the wine only inhibiting the ease with which he slips his lips against Crowley’s. He hums, honey-slick, and he brings his hands to cradle that smooth-skin and cut-jaw. With each kiss, he feels a hot zing of electricity that follows a path from his lips to his heart to his groin— it builds and bleeds and conglomerates until he’s sure he can’t stand another moment of not having absolute full-body contact with the demon before him. 

With a ragged moan, Aziraphale fists his hand in the ruffed sleeve of Crowley’s doublet, urging him up and into his lap. The demon follows mercifully, crowding up onto him and following Aziraphale’s pull until he’s pressed to Aziraphale’s front. Their mouths hardly part during the entire transition, and if they do, it’s only to breathe hotly into one another’s mouths or bite at one another’s lips. 

Aziraphale’s fingers scrabble at the buttons on Crowley’s doublet and he regretfully breaks from his mouth to speak. “How long have you been able to feel that I wanted you?” he asks, breath hot against Crowley’s cheek.

Crowley steals another kiss and helps Aziraphale with the buttons. “A few hundred years, at least.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale laughs, smiling against Crowley’s throat. “I’ve wanted you like this for much longer than that, dearheart. Must’ve let my guard down.” 

“—How long, exactly?” Crowley asks, shivering as his doublet falls away, followed by his mauve linen shirt, revealing his thin, soft chest. Aziraphale’s hands waste no time in beginning to explore it, and he pinches a nipple between his fingers just to watch how Crowley keens. 

“Since I first saw you,” Aziraphale admits, then bites at the flesh at Crowley’s shoulder. “You tempted me without ever knowing. All you had to do was look at me. I really— I really don’t remember not wanting you, I meant it.” 

“Ah,” Crowley moans, “okay.” Aziraphale’s hands move to his back, clutching him tightly against himself, as his mouth works deep burgundy bruises into Crowley’s throat. The demon’s searching hand finally finds the back of the chair, which he uses as leverage to press into Aziraphale with his hips, rutting them together through their breeches. All Aziraphale can do is pull his mouth away to cry out in pleasure. 

“Oh, do that again,” Aziraphale pleads breathily, hands scrabbling at Crowley’s back. “Oh, Crowley.” He rocks up against him, punching the breath from both their chests. 

After a few elongated moments of frotting themselves together through their clothes, both gasping at the air and clutching each other desperately, Crowley tries to speak. “Oh— Aziraphale—“ he chokes, his fingers dancing down to undo the fastening of Aziraphale’s jerkin, then pulling his ruffed collar off. “How do you want me, my love— my angel— what do you want, how—“

“Anything, Crowley,” he nearly growls, pulling at his own shirtcollar until it rips. Crowley tears his shirt off the rest of the way, repairing it with a miracle as it flies from his hand to the floor. “Anything— now— here. I just want you.” 

Crowley’s hunger increases tenfold at this statement, this plea. His hands learn the feel of Aziraphale’s ribs, his stomach, the hair at his navel and the soft give of flesh at his waist. “Mm, take me to bed,” he commands, gravel-voiced and wanting. “Take me to bed, angel.” 

Aziraphale pushes Crowley up and off of him, standing to coax him towards the room’s modest bed. He stops for a moment at the foot of the bed to press his chest to the demon’s as he tangles them in a kiss, and he grabs onto Crowley’s arse to press them hotly together. Crowley moans, low and rumbling like thunder, and Aziraphale strains to memorize how it sounds. 

With his free hand, Crowley unlaces the front of Aziraphale’s breeches as he falls to the bed and pulls Aziraphale down with him. Aziraphale catches himself before he can forcefully collide with Crowley and deliberately places one of his legs between the demon’s, pressing his thigh to the tent in his trousers. Crowley moans at the contact and, with the careful reverence of a man in love, a man _dedicated,_ removes Aziraphale’s breeches and his pants with them. That rough-spun hem falls away. His hands push up, ghosting along the place where that hem once fell, along the angry red seamlines. “Angel. Oh, angel.” 

His hands are so gentle. For these moments, those hands quell every fear Aziraphale could manage to have. 

Crowley kicks his boots off and Aziraphale kindly steals his breeches away, leaving them both fully nude and exposed before one another in a way previously unknown to them both. They take pause, blue-blue and golden slitted eyes drinking in one another’s bodies, taking their fill, slaking their hunger. Crowley swallows and moves his hand almost imperceptibly; he twitches to touch the skin of Aziraphale’s neck. Before he can, he seems to become overwhelmed— his eyes track down Aziraphale’s chest, past the swell of his stomach, and fix hungrily on his cock, thick and flushed red with want and leaking already. He shivers a breath and Aziraphale snaps from his own similar reverie. 

“You’re beautiful,” Aziraphale says, breath punched out. “You’re gorgeous, Crowley.” He bends at the waist to press his mouth to Crowley’s chest, bowing in reverence. “You—“ and he catches a hand on the demon’s cock— “you’re so breathtaking, thank you— for being here.” _With me. For me. Beneath me._ He gives a smooth upward stroke and Crowley stops breathing all at once, back arching, begging for more. Aziraphale feels drunk, but not on the wine. Not on the wine anymore. 

Aziraphale works his way down Crowley’s body like a starved man. He stops to pay careful attention to his nipples and even more careful attention to what happens when they’re touched. With his tongue he memorizes the earth-tone constellation that dots a path down Crowley’s stomach, his every freckle and mole, and he compares them to the stars. He remembers those stars, pictures them, the ones he’s looked at countless nights, and he thinks perhaps that they don’t shine as bright as he remembers. 

Eventually, he comes to the patch of hair below his navel, allowing himself to dip his tongue down and taste the salt-sweet of his skin. Crowley only gasps, breaths thready and small. For a moment, Aziraphale fears he’s moving all-too fast, and he looks up at Crowley as if to ask for permission. With one hand skirting up Crowley’s taut thigh, he asks, “may I?” 

“Please,” is Crowley’s response. “Anything, Aziraphale. Please.” 

Aziraphale puffs a breath and nods, dipping his face in order to lick a long line up the bottom of Crowley’s cock. Crowley shivers, blaspheming, and Aziraphale responds by taking the head of it into his mouth and sucking, then pushing down more to take in his length. The Effort he’s sporting is perhaps not as thick as Aziraphale’s own, but the length of it hits the back of his throat just _so,_ and Aziraphale _loves_ it, _relishes_ it. The weight of it is perfect on his tongue. He wants to be sore later. He wants to remember how this feels. The thought alone is erotic. 

As he bobs his head, moving his tongue in a way he hopes is pleasurable (and assumes is such, if Crowley’s writhing is anything to go off) he grinds himself on the rough topsheet of the bed, hoping, _praying_ for some kind of relief. When that isn’t enough, he finds his mind and wraps his hand around his cock, fisting it gently and moaning around Crowley, all deep and spit-thick. Crowley peers down to him and sees him— sees what he’s doing, and he can’t seem to stop himself from choking out a heavy moan as a shudder wracks his body. “You’re touching yoursel— _Satan below,_ Aziraphale, Jesus fuck—“ 

When Aziraphale plants a hand at the base of Crowley’s cock, matching its movements to the rhythm of his lips, Crowley begins to pull away. He threads his fingers atop the hand Aziraphale has wrapped around him and pushes it off. “Angel— angel, stop, I’m gonna—“

“Mm— oh.” All at once, Aziraphale pulls off, hand still securely clasped around Crowley’s cock. He realizes, in this moment, that as much as he wants to get Crowley off _now,_ what he wants more is to _savor it._

To savor it— at least more than a messy blowjob. He wants to go slower. Be more purposeful. He wants to take him apart. He wants to watch him fall to pieces and he wants to remember _exactly what it looks like_ just in case it’s the last time he ever gets to. He doesn’t want it to be a smudge in his mind later, a rush, a mess— he wants the crystal-glass clarity of it. He wants the stained glass window of this moment to hang in his mind until the day he becomes a part of the stars he wove, dust of the cosmos. 

With a new, slightly more somber weight settled in his chest and the feeling of clarity, sobriety, dawning upon him, Aziraphale moves back up Crowley’s front in order to kiss him. He makes it gentle, makes it soft. Crowley hums into his mouth, mewling at Aziraphale’s ministrations. He grinds them together just enough for it to feel good, to make them both tremble, but not enough to bring Crowley or himself over the edge. 

“I ‘nna ride you,” Aziraphale mumbles against his mouth as Crowley licks his upper lip. He kisses him thickly, sucks his tongue into his mouth, as Crowley registers his words and moans headily, grinding against Aziraphale. “Wanna— mm— wanna be— wait—“ 

Aziraphale, in a gesture never-before-seen by a lover of his, brushes one stout, square hand across the crest of his pubis, smoothing the red-hot, leaking line of his cock flat and inward. He moves his hand away to reveal a perfect pink cunt framed by pale blonde curls, already dripping, clit swollen and hard and pressing free of its hood just so. 

Crowley’s breath catches, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Is this okay?” Aziraphale asks, suddenly caught bashful. “Didn’t want to— prepare.” 

“Mm— oh, yes. M’fine, just let me,” Crowley stutters pleasantly, taken aback in the best of ways, pushing Aziraphale to lie on his side. His eyes are heavy-lidded and focused and touch-drunk as he touches Aziraphale, up on his knees now, pushing the angel to lie on his back. He leans down to press a kiss to his sternum, slow and tender. “You’re— God, you’re just.” 

“Where’s your eloquence, Crowley?” Aziraphale laughs breathily, pushing his body into Crowley’s wandering hands. “I seem to remember you feeding lines to Shakespeare.” 

“You know I can never speak around you,” Crowley hums, pressing another kiss to his chest, higher this time. “—Been a fool since Eden, all your fault.” 

“Is that so?” Aziraphale grins. He wants to make a quip about the great serpent of Eden’s very own smooth, tempting words being robbed from him, but it doesn’t get out of him in time. Crowley presses his finger through slick, pink folds and mewls as though he’s the one being touched. Aziraphale can’t not respond, all short breaths and pale whines. “Oh, yes, dear boy, yes. Like that.” Crowley bends to his will, presses at him where he’s swollen and sensitive and _ready._

Crowley carefully rubs circles at Aziraphale’s clit for a long moment before dipping back into his slick, alternating between the two, then pushing a finger inside him and feeling Aziraphale’s spine curl towards Heaven. He pumps it in and out steadily, the image of his cock being inside Aziraphale rather than his finger almost pushing him straight over the edge. His finger bends once, twice, thrice, a come-hither, while his thumb presses to his clit and adds pressure, just enough pressure, and _oh,_ Aziraphale comes suddenly with a gush of liquid and a flutter of muscles. 

Crowley rubs him through the aftershocks and into oversensitivity. Aziraphale sits up without warning, grabbing Crowley by his freckle-kissed shoulders and moving him to rest against the headboard, bent at the waist. Easy as anything, Aziraphale slips between his legs, giving his cock a few cursory pumps and watching it leak over his fist in want. Crowley is saturated thickly with lust, panting, a mirror of Aziraphale’s own desire. 

Aziraphale takes mercy. He slips into his lap, lines them up. He rubs Crowley’s warm, ready cock along himself, mixing their slick and catching Crowley’s head on his entrance just to watch him squirm and plead. “Oh— fuck— please, Aziraphale, please.” 

In a moment of perfect clarity, a moment of incarnate need, Aziraphale begins to push down onto Crowley’s cock slowly. At the first inch, the first catch, Aziraphale can feel him resisting the urge to thrust up into him, to sheathe himself unapologetically, and he almost wishes the demon wouldn’t hold back. Since he is, though, Aziraphale takes advantage and pushes down slow, painstakingly, feeling every inch. 

At the same time, they both look down to where they’re joined: shiny, wet, pink-and-red with arousal, the stretch of Aziraphale’s folds around Crowley’s cock and the slow press-together. Crowley whimpers disbelievingly, his thumbs pressed reverentially into Aziraphale’s hips. 

“I can’t believe,” Crowley pants as Aziraphale slides down, takes him to the hilt, and releases a hot breath at the feeling of the stretch, the feeling of being so _full._ “I can’t believe we— you’re—“ 

His tongue is still tied, and Aziraphale chooses mercy again. He starts to move, threading his hips up and down and causing Crowley to fling his head backward, curl his fingers deeper into the flesh of his thighs. “Mmm— oh, _Crowley--“_

At the sound of his own name whined in Aziraphale’s mouth, something kickstarts in Crowley’s chest. He makes a noise that’s half growl, half groan and begins moving his hips to meet the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s, his fingertips digging into his hips so deep that they might bruise. Aziraphale will love the marks, he swears to God. “Oh-- Aziraphale— _angel—_ you-- you feel so-- I’m not— going to last--” 

“That’s fine, my darling,” Aziraphale says breathily, hands levered on Crowley’s chest so that he can haul himself up and nearly off of Crowley’s cock, then push himself back down. The catch of his head, the deep dig of his hardness, the languid rub against the most sensitive spot Aziraphale has that isn’t on his wings-- all of it adds together to make a frenzy of feelings, a cacophony of sound that, to Aziraphale’s well-trained ear, sounds just about perfect. (Sounds like _exactly what he’s always wanted, craved, could’ve burned up for.)_

Crowley begins to unravel, eyes screwed tight and breaths stuttering with his hips. Aziraphale can tell he’s close, can feel it, and he bends at the waist to kiss him, undulating and grinding his clit against Crowley’s abdomen. Crowley is all too happy to be kissed and presses into it until he can’t anymore, breaking his mouth from Aziraphale’s to cry out against his lips as he comes. 

The following wave of love isn’t felt the same way by the room’s two occupants. To Crowley, it feels like his heartbeat, his breath, and is just as normal, as natural. To Aziraphale, it’s an unexpected gale of wind that nearly bowls him flat. His fingernails dig into the flesh at Crowley’s shoulders and he curls into Crowley, experiencing the most intense orgasm of his five-thousand years. He cries out— no, he all but _screams,_ dragging out their highs as long and far as he can; feeling Crowley spill into him with a warmth and wetness that shouldn’t make him feel as heady and emotional as he does. 

They come down from it together, both twitching, their muscles wound tighter than a close-cut spring. Aziraphale collapses on Crowley’s chest, so full and so hollow, and _relaxes._

As they curl into one another, bliss-filled and loose-bodied and _warm_ and _panting_ , Aziraphale feels something entirely preternatural crash into him like a tidal wave; a second slam of celestial intuition that nearly physically wrenches him from the bed. Instead he shudders in Crowley’s arms as the demon’s love washes over him again. Crowley tightens his grip on him, pressing his nose into Aziraphale’s hair and breathing, just breathing. His throat catches like there’s something he wants to put a voice to and _won’t._ (Can’t?)

Aziraphale knows, bone deep, _knows_ what Crowley wants to say. He can feel it in every one of his atoms. It shakes within the very core of him. He’s an angel: he can feel love just like his corporation can breathe air, like he can feel the sun on his skin. He can feel Crowley’s love, but there’s a million reasons why he won’t vocalize it. It’s just-- it’s so _new,_ somehow, and so _treacherous,_ and so _difficult,_ and-- and Aziraphale _knows_ he won’t say it, but it’s okay, he can _feel_ it.

\--which is why it’s wholly surprising when Crowley finds his voice. “I love you, Aziraphale,” he whispers-- no, _whimpers_ , and it floats over Aziraphale’s skin like a ghost, like a blessing. Aziraphale holds Crowley tighter as a third, smaller wave of love crests over him and he trembles, tears welling in his eyes. He buries his face in Crowley’s neck. 

“That’s dangerous,” Aziraphale murmurs, his very breath shaking. 

“I know,” Crowley concedes quietly, tensing, shivering, feeling Aziraphale’s tears on his skin. “I don’t care. I love you.” 

And-- _hell._ Suddenly it’s not _too-much_ anymore. Suddenly it’s simple.

Aziraphale moves ever-so slightly and presses a kiss to the column of Crowley’s throat. His tears overflow and spill onto his face, into the cadence of his voice. He chokes on a cry, unable to believe how brave Crowley is being for the both of them. He decides to be brave, as well, even if he knows it could hurt them later. “I love you, too.” 

Crowley relaxes at Aziraphale’s words-- the angel intuits that Crowley was, in some way, scared that he wouldn’t return his feelings, but that’s absurd. Aziraphale can't imagine a universe where he doesn’t feel what he feels for Crowley. The demon in question chuckles mirthlessly, and Aziraphale thinks he may be crying as well. “Oh,” he says softly, “good.”

A little wet laugh leaves Aziraphale’s mouth. He cries harder, holds him tighter. “Yeah, it’s good,” Aziraphale sniffles. “It’s very good.”

They end up wound around one another, weeping and pressing kisses to each other’s lips, shoulders, necks, faces-- whatever they can reach. They breathe gentle exaltations, I-love-yous, murmurs of reverence and gratification. They say little besides that phrase, besides that little worship. Someday they’ll take the time to allow those rivers to pass their lips, to sweep them both away with the very force of their love for one another. That gale-strength, water-current love. But for now, it’s the simplicity that they revel in. It’s the soft touches where none were allowed before. The pressure of lips where they had been restricted. The words of adoration where there had previously been silence.

Aziraphale places kisses over the lids of those clear-star golden-slit eyes, and when they open, when they look upon him, he feels like he’s watching a sunrise, a brand new dawn. Like he’s seeing things in a new light.

The moon is their only witness. It shines through time-fogged windows, illuminating in muted colors the fabric of their millenias-old love, finally in repose.

Sure, in the morning, they’ll have to leave. They’ll go their separate ways. They’ll leave this bed behind, the rumpled sheets remaining the only evidence of their stolen night. He knows that. They both do. After this, they’ll still be on opposite sides, fighting against one another’s causes. As much as Aziraphale would like to find a loophole-- a workaround, something that allows him to hold Crowley all the time without fear, to take him apart every night without that soul-fleshed paranoia-- he can’t. Not yet.

Right now, they can have one another. In this little room in London, they can have one another, and they do.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> whoops! thanks for reading, ily! you can find me anywhere @goosetooths!


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